It is done. The baker’s man divides his lump into smaller lumps, each of which will become a loaf. The Copris acts likewise. By means of a circular gash made with the cleaver of the shield and the saw of the fore-legs, she separates from the main body a section of the prescribed size. For this stroke of the trencher, no hesitation is needed, no after-touches that add or subtract. Off-hand and with a plain, decisive cut, a lump is obtained of the requisite bulk. It now becomes a question of shaping it. Clasping it as best it can in its short arms, so incompatible, one would think, with work of this kind, the insect rounds the section by the one and only means of pressure. It gravely moves about the hitherto shapeless ball, climbs up, climbs down; it turns to left and right, above and below; methodically, it presses a little more here, a little less there; it improves by new touches, with unchanging patience; and, in twenty-four hours’ time, the angular piece has become a perfect sphere, the size of a plum. In a corner of her crammed studio, the podgy artist, with hardly room to move, has finished her work without once shaking it on its base; by dint of time and patience, she has obtained the geometrical globe which her clumsy tools and her confined space seemed bound to refuse her. The insect continues for a long time yet to improve and lovingly to polish its sphere, gently passing its foot to and fro until the least protuberance has disappeared. Its finikin after-touches look as though they would never be done. Towards the end of the second day, however, the globe is pronounced right and proper. The mother climbs to the dome of her edifice and there, still by simple pressure, hollows out a shallow crater. In this basin the egg is laid. Then, with extreme caution, with a delicacy that is most surprising in such rough tools, the lips of the crater are brought together so as to form a vaulted roof over the egg. The mother slowly turns, rakes a little, draws the material upwards and finishes the closing. This is the most ticklish work of all. A careless pressure, a miscalculated thrust might easily jeopardize the life of the germ under its slender ceiling. From time to time, the work of closing is suspended. The mother, motionless, with lowered forehead, seems to auscultate the underlying cavity, to listen to what is happening within. All’s well, it seems; and the patient labour is resumed: a fine scraping of the sides towards the summit, which tapers a little and lengthens out. In this way, an ovoid with the small end uppermost replaces the original sphere. Under the more or less projecting nipple is the hatching-chamber, with the egg. Twenty-four hours more are spent in this minute work. Total: four times round the clock and sometimes longer to construct the sphere, hollow it out basinwise, lay the egg and shut it in by transforming the sphere into an ovoid.